


The Duchess

by erebones



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Courting Rituals, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Character, Letters, M/M, Misunderstandings, Other, Pining, Post-Canon, Trans Claude von Riegan, Trans Male Character, background lysithea/cyril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Shocked to hear that the man he's pined for since leaving Fodlan got married without telling him, Claude travels to Derdriu to get to the bottom of things, only to find that the truth is not exactly what it appears.For Lorenz Week Day 4: Growth
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 19
Kudos: 153
Collections: Lorenz Week 2020





	The Duchess

**Author's Note:**

> Claude is a trans man in this fic; Lorenz is genderfluid/transfemme and uses a variety of pronouns.
> 
> There are some mild references to sexual content in the beginning and end of the fic, but the only real sex scene happens towards the end and can be skipped over if you prefer!

_Dear Claude—_

_You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? It’s just what we called you for so long! Years! And it’s how I think of you still—the you who led the Golden Deer and fought with us against all those terrible people. You’re King Khalid, too, but sometimes I think that man is a stranger to me. After all, I hardly ever see him! But you write often enough, so I suppose I’ll have to be content with that._

_I have ever so much news to share of the goings-on in Derdriu and beyond. I will start with the most exciting: Cyril and Lysithea are engaged! Ever since Linhardt and Professor—I meant Doctor—Hanneman were able to free her from her Crests, she’s been improving steadily, growing more and more like her old self every day. And Cyril is just the sweetest with her, always at her side, so devoted. Ah! To have that sort of bond… truly, I’m starting to think a love like theirs is rare indeed. I don’t expect to find such a man as that, but in the meantime I can dream._

_Oh! I’m rambling again. The next bit of news concerning the happy couple: Lysithea is expecting!! A baby! How crazy is that? It seems like yesterday she was just a kid stomping around with her nose in a book, scared of the ghost stories you used to tell. Do you remember? I wonder if the baby will have white hair. Probably not. Did you know she was a redhead, before? I had no idea. Anyway, I’m sure the baby will be very beautiful, and kind, and brave, just like its parents!_

_Our friends have a betting pool concerning the name. Currently my bet is on ‘Claude.’ If you wish to enter the pool and up the stakes with some of your royal treasury, please send it with your next letter and your choice of first, second, and third name. I promise I will be very careful to keep accurate track of your submission._

_What else… oh! On the subject of love, I have a new project: my dear Marianne. Despite the improvements she’s made since our school days, she is still so reticent and shy, preferring to spend time with old friends and acquaintances. No matter how hard I try, I cannot convince her to join me mingling with the society of Derdriu!_

_So I’ve hatched a marvelous plan. If Marianne will not seek romantic companionship amongst the many many eligible people in our beautiful city, then I will simply have to find her someone she already knows and may potentially fall in love with! I know you are already shaking your head at me for meddling, but listen: I have already noticed Leonie calls often on Marianne at her Derdriu apartments when she is in town (which isn’t terribly often, since she and Ignatz are so keen on seeing the entire world, but when she does—!). Therefore I have made it my mission to see whether they might be good for each other in the long term. I have not had much opportunity yet, for the aforementioned reasons, but the next time I write I hope I will have more news, as Leonie and Ignatz are planning on returning to Derdriu for a short while until the Ordelia baby is born. _

_But enough about that, I’m sure you’re more interested in the duller goings-on of court than of our friends, politician that you are. You know I make it a priority to know as little about the Roundtable as possible, but just for you I sat in on the last session and paid very close attention (do not raise your eyebrow at me—I really did try!). Why did no one tell me these sessions lasted a WEEK? I was expecting a single day, perhaps even a single afternoon. But I digress._

_(Does this count as spying? Ooh, am I a double agent? Hmm perhaps I should not joke about such things, even though there is peace between our countries. Hello, Almyran spy checking this letter for poisons or whatever else—I promise this is all said in jest!)_

_From what I can tell, things are settling quite peacefully among our counties. Once during the week Lorenz did butt heads with my brother, who was being quite stupid—I try not to intervene, since I have no head for politics as you know, but in this case I did speak with him after, to ensure that he was appropriately chastised—but they made up afterward and the next day discussions were quite civil. _

_Speaking of Lorenz, the Duchess Gloucester hosted the most wonderful tea party at their townhouse in Derdriu with all of our friends. It was just like old times, Claude. We spoke of you quite frequently—we all miss you dearly. When are you next coming to Fódlan? You promised you would visit, but we haven’t seen hide or hair of you since your coronation. _

_The Goneril apartments in Derdriu are always open to you, darling. I even have a suite set aside especially for you: the Almyran suite! Isn’t that grand? So please come and visit us soon, and in the meantime take care, and write to me soon of everything you are doing in Almyra. I pray this letter finds you well, as always._

_Your very dearest friend,_

_Hilda Valentine Goneril_

~

_Slam._

“ _Duchess_?!”

There’s a crash from the other side of the door and a guard rushes in as Claude shakes off the sting of nearly putting his fist through the desk. The letter from Hilda glides to the floor, unfinished.

“Majesty! Is everything all right? Are you injured?”

“No it’s all right, I’m fine.” He stands from his desk to prove it, fetching the letter from the ground. “I just had a bit of a start. You may return to your post.”

“Majesty.” The guard bows low—one of the newer ones, recently vetted by Saman’s rigorous training program but still a little wet behind the ears—and retreats, shutting the door solidly behind him. Claude is left to stand in the center of his chambers, feeling as though someone has just taken a knife to his ribs from behind.

He picks up the letter again. Perhaps he misread. _The Duchess Gloucester hosted the most wonderful—_

Claude swallows hard, resists the urge to tear the parchment, and reads the rest of the letter straight through, though he barely absorbs the words on the page. Some empty platitudes that he’s not in the mood for, not after she so casually swept the legs out from under him and left him in the dirt.

_Duchess. The Duchess Gloucester._

He can hardly believe it. How could he? Lorenz is the type to do things _properly_ , to attend to the correct courting procedures, to take his time. Surely there was time to write him about the woman, whoever she is. Time to invite him to the bloody _wedding_ —

Abruptly, confusion turns to anger, and the slam of his hand against the desk no longer seems overwrought. He leaves the letter there and paces across the room to the great arches that look over the city. _His_ city.

How could Lorenz have not told him? The last letter from his friend arrived only a fortnight ago, and still rests in his drawer along with all the hundreds of others they’ve exchanged in the two years since Claude left Fódlan. It bore no mention of a wife, nor have any of his previous letters, each one longer than the last and smelling faintly of his rose perfume even after miles and miles of hard road. No mention of a woman at all.

He burns with curiosity tainted bitter by heartbreak. It’s ridiculous—he has no right to feel so slighted. He has no claim to Lorenz, not formally. They had discussed as much after the war, and arrived at the same conclusion. It would have been inadvisable. Unrealistic.

And just like that, he understands. Of course. Lorenz hoped to spare his feelings. It’s the only explanation. Dear, dear conscientious Lorenz, always more concerned for others than for himself. They haven’t spoken of their… affair… in any of the letters they’ve exchanged, but Claude has always felt it under the surface, a current of energy he can sense in Lorenz’s perfectly articulated words. A constant reminder. A tether to the past.

He has often wondered if his own lingering feelings have come through in the letters he sends to Fódlan, and now he has his answer. Lorenz knew, and so he kept his engagement and nuptials a secret, hoping not to hurt him.

Somehow that only drives the knife deeper.

Was it for love, he wonders, or for political reasons? Perhaps a business transaction that turned to mutual endearment, or even affection? He has no way of knowing. His fingers itch to return to his desk, to pore over Lorenz’s letters for hints at a secret bride—but he stops himself. What good will it do? The deed is already done, for who knows how long. Uncovering the truth will not change what’s transpired.

His furious burst of energy drains away, and he sinks down to the edge of his bed, far too grand and large for just one person. He recalls, too readily, the last time he and Lorenz had… well. He stares at the palms of his hands, curled upward in his lap. His fingers, blunt and knobbled strangely where they pulled around wood and sinew for so many years. Callouses worn smooth by time and paperwork. Once upon a time they’d clasped Lorenz around the neck, held him still while he had him from behind. Once upon a time Lorenz had kissed them, kissed the signet ring he wore, and woven his own through their grip so tightly it seemed he’d never let go.

Lorenz was so tactile. So eager to touch and be touched. They had both tried to maintain distance at first, to remain professional, but those boundaries wore away, dissolved under the weight of shifting an entire continent. And once they began it was impossible to stop. Brief assignations turned to long nights awake, tangled in sheets, heaving together like tectonic plates beneath the earth’s surface.

The morning after they took Enbarr, they slept together in some long-abandoned apartment of the palace, waking often to kiss and touch and fuck each other in borrowed silk sheets. Morning had bled into the afternoon—no one came to fetch them. They breathed the same air, entwined, bathed in the golden light streaming through the enormous windows that faced the palace proper.

It was the last time they’d shared such intimacy. A few weeks later they’d marched out to meet their resurrected ancestors, consigning them once more to death. The very next day Claude had begun making preparations to leave for Almyra. The only conversation they had in private after that was discussing the transfer of power from Riegan to Gloucester, and a brief, oblique agreement that their goals were best achieved separately. An entire range of mountains between them.

He is only making himself sick, thinking this way, but he can’t help it. Anger floods him again, and jealousy, wicked and bitter-black. He wonders if Lorenz makes love to her the way he did Claude. He wonders whether he asks her to pin him by the throat until his face is streaked with tears and he spends without breath in his lungs for crying out.

Somehow he doubts it.

Before he can quite piece together what he’s doing, Claude stands from the bed and strides to the door, flinging it open. Outside, the pair of guards stationed to his quarters stands just a little bit straighter.

“One of you, fetch Councillor Nader,” he snaps. “Quickly.”

He feels bad as soon as he returns to his chambers. He makes it a point to never snap at his subordinates without cause, yet here he is, the thorn of Lorenz’s betrayal sticking under his skin until he snaps.

 _You’re being dramatic_ , he tells himself, struggling against the vines of jealousy wrapping tight around his ribs. Part of him, the logical part, regrets asking for Nader so quickly. He is no child, crying when someone pulls his pigtail in the training yard. But he feels himself in need of another brain, another set of eyes. Someone to tell him _you’re in the wrong_ , so that he can settle himself in that knowledge and take steps to eradicate hurt feelings. Or perhaps someone to give him permission to go.

When Nader arrives, he’s sitting in the window, knees drawn to his chest like a little boy. Claude turns from the magnificent vista before him in time to see Nader bowing low, hand to breast like he does before the throne—never in private.

“My King,” he intones, a lilt of playfulness to his voice. But then he straightens, and the smile drops from his face as he gets a better look at his liege. “Khalid, are you well?”

“I am—yes. Physically, yes.”

“And are you of sound mind?”

Claude sighs. “Relatively.” He paces to the desk, drawn back to the letter laid upon it like arrows to the target. Hilda’s words brew and bubble in his mind. _You promised you would visit_ , and _the Goneril townhouse is always open to you_. “Might it be possible for me to take a short… leave of absence?”

Nader’s brows climb toward his slowly retreating hairline. “A leave of absence? You’re the king, kiddo, you can do whatever you please.”

“That’s very untrue, and you know it.”

“You’ve been monarch for, what… almost two years now, isn’t it? I think you’ve earned the right to a vacation.”

Claude takes a deep breath, turning his gaze once more to the letter. “There’s been so much to do here, is all. I don’t want to abandon my post.”

“Your _post_ can spare you. That’s what you have me for, and Saman, and your cousin Pari, and a whole host of others who have pledged ourselves to the work you do.” Nader’s heavy booted feet tramp across the floor, and a broad hand comes to rest on Claude’s shoulder. “What’s all this about, lad? Homesick?”

“Of course not. _This_ is home, and always has been, as you well know.”

“Your home has not always been kind to you. And you spent many years in Fódlan—it stands to reason that you would develop a fondness for it.”

Claude shakes his head. “I am fond of Fódlan, in a way. But this is where I belong. I love Almyra—it’s where I was raised, and where, gods willing, I will eventually meet a peaceful end. Fódlan had its own share of bad with the good, and besides, it’s the people I miss more than the country.”

“Do the people not make the country? I believe you said something to that effect to me before.” Nader lowers himself to the window ledge, clearly settling in for a serious talk. Perhaps Claude should feel bad for dragging him away from his duties, but instead all he can feel is relief. He doesn’t get much opportunity to sit and talk one-on-one with his old mentor—the occasional bout in the training grounds don’t count. “The people, then. You are homesick for the people.”

Homesick for people. Claude supposes he could describe it that way. For all his friends, but one in particular. One who will now always be out of his reach. “I received some news of a personal nature that I… was not expecting.” Claude taps the letter with his knuckles. “About an old friend.”

Nader hums. “Let me guess. That Gloucester brat.”

“I—have no idea how you would come to such a conclusion—”

“Pah! Don’t insult me. I have eyes, you know. I was almost sure you’d be bringing him back with us, when all was said and done.” Nader is grinning, but it fades quickly when he remembers the tone of their conversation. “He’s gone and done something, has he? My most elite wyvern riders can be ready for dispatch at a moment’s notice, Highness. Just say the word.”

Claude forces a brittle laugh. “Trust me, this isn’t worth igniting the continent in another war. It’s nothing serious, anyway.”

“Serious enough to call me here,” Nader points out. “Serious enough to contemplate leaving behind your duties to ride over mountains and plains and rivers to reunite.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Claude snips, lifting his chin. “Travel by ship is much more efficient.”

Nader breaks into laughter, deep and rolling right from his gut. “There he is. You are right, of course. Very well. I shall inform Maryam that you intend to depart on wyvernback tomorrow morning, and to prepare you victuals for the journey. I don’t suppose I can convince you to take a battalion?”

Claude wrinkles his nose.

“I thought not. Very well, but I have to insist upon an escort. Two elite soldiers, in plainclothes. Just in case.”

“I suppose, if I must.”

“You must.” Nader stands abruptly, energized by his new task. “I expect you can take care of the rest yourself. When can we expect your return?”

“I’ll be gone no longer than a week,” Claude says after only a split second of pondering. It gives him enough time to get there, spend two or three days with his friends catching up—and figuring out what to say to Lorenz, if he says anything at all. He’s not sure which is worse: pretending nothing is out of the ordinary and congratulating him on his nuptials, or confronting him about it. Demanding answers. “Do you think the council can survive without me for that long?”

Nader bows deeply. “I will see that it does, Highness.”

~

Fair winds carry them across the Kupal Strait more quickly than Claude had accounted for, and they arrive early afternoon on the second day with minimal fanfare. Claude has no intention of announcing his presence to anyone but his friends, and so he instructs the captain to sign their docking papers under “tourist” and takes to the streets in the local style: on horseback, in a simple tunic-style doublet and trousers, all insignias and jewelry tucked away or left behind.

It’s a bit surreal. The last time he was here, he was Duke Riegan, heir to the Leicester Alliance, Head of the Roundtable. Now he makes his way through streets that hustle and bustle without sparing him more than a second glance, thriving under a different hand.

He wonders what the people think of her. The Duchess. (He has resisted the urge to seek out more information, and it hurts too much to think of her as ‘Lorenz’s wife,’ so _The Duchess_ she will remain. For now.) Lorenz is, above all things, devoted to his country; any spouse he selected would surely be beloved by her people, likely fashionable, articulate, intelligent. And, of course, as dedicated to the improvement of the Alliance as her husband.

Perhaps she has opened schools, Claude thinks as they ride slowly through the merchant district to the Duchal Palace. Perhaps she throws lavish parties—Hilda already hinted as much—and directs the revenue funds toward charitable causes. Hilda had mentioned the Gloucester gardens. Perhaps the Duchess is as fond of flowers as her husband, and helps him prune the roses in the early morning before matters of state take precedence in their household.

This line of thought has plagued him the entire journey, and it seems that arriving in Derdriu has only increased the obsessive pattern, circling his brain like a caged jungle cat seeking escape. He’s so distracted by his internal musings—painful, but in a strange, numbing, addictive way—that he barely notices they’ve arrived at the palace until one of his guards clears their throat.

“Maj—Master Claude,” he mumbles, forgetting his address for a moment before recovering. “Would you like us to announce you?”

Claude shakes off the shroud of melancholic self-sabotage and looks up. Immediately he can tell something is off. When he lived in the Duchal Palace with his grandfather, and later used it as a base of operations when Garreg Mach was not strategically sound, the colors of House Riegan hung from the facade, and the crescent-shaped banners that fluttered from the towers indicated that the family was in residence rather than at their country estate. He had expected something similar from the new Duke—Lorenz was nothing if not a stickler for appearances—but the banners that hang now from the palace’s columned face are generic Leicester Alliance colors. The patrolling guards are not adorned in Gloucester purple, but in Leicester gold.

Things have changed in his absence. More than just the obvious.

“Change of plans,” he says. “Let’s call on the Goneril apartments first. Just to get the lay of the land.”

His escorts exchange an unreadable glance over his head, and Claude turns his rented horse around with a prickle of irritation. When he gets home he’s having a word with Nader about only hiring giants into his elite security team.

Luckily, the Gonerils keep a lavish townhouse not far from the Palace, and they are admitted into the courtyard without question. It occurs to him belatedly that he should have written ahead—as fast as they had traveled, a messenger bird would have traveled faster—but it’s too late now. Instead he tidies his hair and straightens his jabot and gives the butler his name. To his credit, the man hardly blinks, just bows low and glides away to inform the lady of the house that she has a guest.

He doesn’t have to wait long. There’s a muffled shriek from upstairs, the thud of footsteps, and then Hilda herself is storming down the enormous staircase in her stocking-feet, a whimsical silk dressing gown flaring out behind her as she all but leaps into his arms.

“Claude!” she cries, giggling when he picks her up and spins her around obligingly. “Goddess, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Look at you! Your hair is so long—your beard! Ah!” She clasps his face between her palms and beams at him. “What on earth are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, I’m just so surprised! You didn’t even write to say you were coming, oh, I’ll have to have the Almyran suite freshened up for you—oh dear. It isn’t bad, is it?”

“What isn’t bad?” Claude asks, bemused and a little breathless. He’d forgotten how overwhelming Hilda could be when she was excited about something.

“The reason you’re here!” She drops her hands from his face to his shoulders, peering at his face more closely. “You look tired.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve traveled so far, that’s all.” He takes her hands and kisses the knuckles of each, one and then the other. “I’m sorry for not writing, it was a bit spur of the moment. It’s lovely to see you, Hil.”

Her smile returns, but she doesn’t look like she entirely believes him. “Well, it’s wonderful that you’re here. I’ll have to let everyone know immediately—”

“Wait! I… would love to see everyone, yes, of course.” _Of course._ “But first I wondered if we could… catch up. There’s a lot I feel like I’ve missed, despite your frequent letters.”

“Of course! Yes, let’s sit and have tea, and get reacquainted. Come, come, my salon is just perfectly appointed for this sort of thing.”

Brief instructions are given to see to his horses and entourage, and then she loops their arms together and leads the way upstairs to her private sitting room. Upon entering, Claude startles a little to see a handsome man rebuttoning his shirt. Hilda is not so shocked.

“Pierre! Why are you still here? Get out, you silly man.” She flings his coat at him and bundles him out the door, then turns back with a flushed face and a sigh. “Sorry about him. The pretty ones always seem to be missing a little something up here, don’t you think?” She taps her forehead in illustration and then glides through the room, straightening cushions and setting aside an old tea service still littered with crumbs. “I’ve called for more refreshments, so just make yourself at home, sit wherever you like. Window open or shut?”

“A bit of a breeze would be nice,” Claude says neutrally, taking in the room at a glance. It’s very frilly and pink—very Hilda—but in a mature, grown-up way she’d never exhibited at school. While she fusses with the shutters and sash, he makes his way to a settee made over in cream-colored brocade, inspecting it carefully for any strange stains before seating himself at one end. “Pierre is… your beau?”

“ _Beau_. What a lovely way of putting it!” Hilda laughs, returning to sit opposite him. Her dressing gown has been shed to show off her pretty scallop-edged day dress, low-cut at the bust and snug at the waist. “You’ve certainly improved your tact since you’ve been away. He’s just a bit of fun, nothing more. My summer model.”

A knock comes at the door, and a maid enters with a fresh tea service, complete with cakes and fruit with cream. Claude takes a peach and begins polishing the fuzz away with a napkin. “I stopped by the Palace first, but it looks… different than I remember.”

“Oh! Yes, when Lorenz’s father died, he decided that he had no need for rattling around that enormous old thing by himself. It’s more of an embassy, now. They have meetings and events and host foreign dignitaries there, it’s quite nice.” Her eyes are keen over the rim of her teacup. “Looking for our dear Duke, were you? I see how it is.”

“It was mostly muscle memory,” Claude admits. “I’m glad it’s been repurposed.” _Was the move inspired by his wife?_ he wonders, but finds he doesn’t yet have the courage to broach that particular subject.

“It’s a beautiful space for balls and such. There has been talk of moving the official Roundtable sessions there, but _some_ people—” she sighs and rolls her eyes toward the portrait of her with her brother that hangs on the far wall “—are just _so_ attached to tradition.”

“Is Lorenz not among that number?” Claude asks with a touch of bitterness.

“Oh, Lorenz does love to be old-fashioned sometimes, but please! You know very well how quickly he adapts to change.” She gives him a strange, piercing look that Claude avoids.

“True. Well, I know how much you hate discussing politics, so tell me about our other friends. When are Lysithea and Cyril to be wed?”

This is safer territory, and one that Hilda is more than happy to explore at length. Despite her copious letters, she has a talent for conversation, and describes all the little details of their engagement and wedding plans, and to a slightly lesser extent, Lysithea’s pregnancy.

“Things are well with baby, according to her midwife. She’s barely even showing yet, but she’s _so_ sweet and glowing—and Cyril might as well have grown ten feet tall, he’s so proud! But I will spare you further details, I want to leave _some_ mystery for Lysithea to dispel as she chooses.”

“Very _tactful_ of you,” is Claude’s rejoinder, earning him a smattering of giggles.

“I suppose we’ve both grown up a little, haven’t we?” She sets her half-finished tea aside and scrutinizes him once more. “In more ways than one. Is that a little thread of silver I see, Claude von Riegan?”

“Perhaps.” Claude touches the hair at his temple, now shoulder length as is the style back home. Sometimes he misses the shorter, spikier hair of his school days—perhaps then he would be able to conceal the fact that he’s already going grey. “Being King is just a mite stressful.”

“I can imagine. And yet you’ve taken a spur of the moment vacation, it seems!” Her dimples sharpen along with her eyes. “Was it difficult to tear yourself away?”

“More difficult for me than for my council, I think,” Claude says, thinking of Nader’s cavalier response. _You’re the King! You can do whatever you please._ If only it were that simple. “If I had known how simple it would be I would have visited sooner.”

“Well now you have no more excuses,” Hilda tuts. “You must come at least once a season, I insist. Winter is so dull here without company. Lysithea and Cyril always go to stay with her parents for the solstice until spring, and Lorenz returns to their estate to oversee the last harvest through until the first Roundtable session… if it weren’t for dear Marianne, who always makes a point to stay with me here for the holidays, I would be quite lonely indeed!”

“You do not join your brother and mother in Goneril for the winter?” Claude asks politely, trying to hide the subliminal flinch that arose at the plural adjoining Lorenz’s name.

“Only for solstice celebrations. It’s terribly cold there, and I would much rather have the minimal society of Derdriu than nothing at all in the mountains. Oh!” Her eyes light up conspiratorially. “Perhaps next year I shall pay _you_ a visit. What do you think of that?”

“You would be very welcome, of course. All of you.”

“Ignatz has been dropping hints lately that he wants to venture east,” Hilda muses. “Perhaps I can convince Marianne to come along. A little caravan… off to see the world…”

Claude follows her thread of conversation willingly, describing the more thrilling aspects of court life back home—most of which he rarely sees, being more steeped in policy and reform than in gossip and society—but restlessness plagues him even while they chat. As loathe as he is to admit the real reason for his visit, he increasingly feels he can no longer delay. He needs to know. He needs to settle his own mind and heart once and for all.

He finishes his tea, and while Hilda arises gracefully to pour them both fresh cups, he grips his fist tightly in his glove and says, as steadily as possible, “I was surprised to hear that Lorenz had married.”

The teapot jerks, and hot tea slops over the rim of the cup and onto the saucer, the tray, and the floor. Hilda lets out a surprisingly sharp curse and sets the teapot down, rushing to blot the liquid from the rug with a tea towel. “Clumsy me,” she laughs, too high-pitched. “Goodness.”

Claude watches her antics without amusement. “You mentioned her in your last letter, if you recall. Was it supposed to be a secret?”

“A secret? No! I mean—not that I was aware.” She fixes both cups, dressing his with a splash of cream without being asked, and returns to her seat slightly more composed. “Do you mean he never… wrote you?”

“He _has_ written me, frequently. Almost as frequently as you, which is impressive considering he is the leader of a nation with many pressing concerns, and you are a young woman without attachments living a life of ease in high society.”

He snaps a little more than he meant to, and the way Hilda wilts slightly like a sun-stained flower makes him feel the sting of his own words. But she only curls her fingers tighter around the handle of her cup and says, quietly, “Yes, well. He was always rather fond of you.”

“Not fond enough apparently.” Claude swallows, too angry to apologize for his tone, even if the words were technically accurate. “Is he… happy?”

“Oh, incandescently,” Hilda sighs, as though the mood in the room hadn’t soured beyond repair. He supposes he deserves the knife twisting cruelly between his ribs as she continues, “I’ve never seen him so happy. This change was good for him.”

So. His worst fears were true. It was not a political match—at least, it was more than _just_ that. Lorenz had married for love, and had seen fit, for whatever reason, to keep that information from Claude. His only mistake had been trusting Hilda not to spill the beans inadvertently.

“Why didn’t he write?” he wonders aloud, more to himself than to Hilda.

He must sound as sad as he feels, because she sets aside her tea and scoots a little closer on the settee, putting a hand to his arm. “Why don’t you go and ask them?”

It’s like being slapped across the face. He stands abruptly, shaking off her hand. “I don’t see the point.”

He means to put his tea down and leave as quickly as possible, but Hilda stands, too, putting herself in his way and meeting him glare for glare. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Home. Thank you for your hospitality, but my place is in Almyra.”

“Stay the night at _least_. Don’t be silly.” She exhales through his nostrils, visibly calming herself. “You’ve come a long way, Claude. Rest, take your time, have a nice breakfast with me in the salon.” When he appears unmoved, she wheedles, “Everyone will be quite sad if you leave without at least saying hello. Especially Lysithea.”

Claude longs to push past her and make his escape, but she knows him too well. Knows his weaknesses, his failures as well as his successes. How to get under his skin. He sighs and forces his shoulders to soften out of their stiff-backed anger, all puffed up like a territorial bird. “I suppose you’re right. I _am_ rather tired.”

“Mmm. I can tell.” She arches an eyebrow at him and he takes her hand. A silent apology passes between them, and she gives his fingers a squeeze before letting go. “Come, let me show you your rooms. You can change and have a wash and a nap before dinner, yes?”

Claude follows her lead, letting the simmer of hurt bleed out of him in waves. It isn’t Hilda’s fault Lorenz went and fell in love with someone else without telling him. He only wishes he had had the foresight to come prepared for the worst, rather than hoping, foolishly, that this was all a misunderstanding that would be easily remedied face to face.

~

Dinner is relaxed, just the two of them, as it had been too short notice to invite anyone else. Quietly, Claude is grateful. He doesn’t have the presence of mind to maintain a cheerful facade any longer, and at least with Hilda he no longer has to pretend. She permits him to mope, chattering away enough for both of them through a fine Daphnel stew and currant cream for dessert.

That night he expects to toss and turn, as he’s done for the past three nights; but instead he lays down and is asleep almost immediately.

His dreams, however, are strange. He dreams he’s back at school, pulling weeds while an older Lorenz sits in the throne of the Duchal Palace and critiques his form. Then he’s in the final battle against Nemesis and his Elites, firing arrow after arrow, only they never seem to land. A voice cries out as he grasps for the last arrow in his quiver: Lorenz, on his back in the muck, sinking as his own ancestor presses his armored foot to Lorenz’s throat. But when Claude draws his arrow back and lets it fly with the spine-tingling hum of crest magic, suddenly their positions are reversed, and he watches with horror as the arrow slices cleanly through Lorenz’s chest and sends him staggering to his knees, mouth open, choking out his own blood—

Claude rockets awake, gasping. For a moment he can’t remember where he is. Then it comes rushing back, and he staggers out of bed to splash his face with cold water and try to settle his racing heart.

Somehow, he sleeps again, deep and dreamless. When he wakes, it’s late morning—sun pours in through the semi-opaque curtains, and his eyes are dry and puffy though he can’t remember weeping. He fumbles through the ritual of bathing and dressing himself, and descends the stairs at quarter to twelve feeling slightly more human and ravenously hungry.

He expects Hilda to still be abed, intending only to slip into the kitchen for some toast and coffee, but when he arrives at the first floor he can hear voices and laughing drifting through the house. Strangely nervous, he picks his way through the corridors, following the sound of merriment. He’s been here before, years ago, but the layout is a mystery to him now, and he stumbles upon the source almost by accident: a morning room flooded with light perched toward the back of the magnificent house, glass windows looking out toward a small but elaborate garden. Hilda holds court at a small round breakfast table, flanked on one side by Cyril, Lysithea and Marianne opposite them. _No Lorenz_ , he notes, and hates himself for feeling relieved.

Cyril sees him right away. He stands quite abruptly, nearly tipping the chair over in his hurry, and conversation immediately halts as everyone turns to look.

“Ah—good morning,” Claude says, trying for jovial. “I hope I’m not interrupting—”

He means to say _your breakfast_ , but he’s cut off as Lysithea springs from her chair and runs to hug him, much the same as Hilda had done the day before. Hilda was right: she’s practically glowing, cheeks rosy with life and color, her pale hair like satin under his hands as he embraces her carefully.

“Hey, Lyssie,” he mumbles, a little choked up. Once upon a time she would have smacked him for the girlish nickname, but today she only holds him tighter.

“You don’t have to be so delicate with me, you know,” she teases. She’s as short as ever, but rocks readily on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, smiling at the brush of his beard. “Hello, Claude. Welcome back.”

“You look—well,” Claude says, stammering over both _beautiful_ and _grown-up_ in his head and deciding against them. “Hello everyone. Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re right on time, silly. Food has only just been served.” Lysithea loops her arm through his and guides him to sit between her and Cyril. “I hope you’re hungry, Hilda asked for a noonday feast!”

Claude makes the rounds before sitting, gripping Cyril’s hand, kissing Marianne’s knuckles and Hilda’s cheek. When he sits, his plate is already being loaded up by Lysithea, who is regarding him with a terrifyingly intense look out of the corner of her eye. “Motherly instincts taking hold already?” he teases, just to hear her huff and scowl like old times.

“You’ve just traveled across an entire ocean! You need to rest and recuperate. Eat!”

“Be gentle with him, Lysithea,” Marianne says softly. “He’s only just woken up.”

“I’ll be fine.” Claude pours himself coffee from a silver pot and breathes in the steam with a sigh of relief. “If I’d known you were having a party, Hilda, I would have made a point to be on time.”

“You’re forgiven,” Hilda intones, then laughs brightly, no trace of last night’s argument in her manner. “I wanted it to be a surprise! Just a small gathering of friends. Ignatz and Leonie aren’t yet in town, unfortunately, but they should be by tomorrow.” She blinks innocently at him over her own coffee cup. “They’ll be very disappointed to have missed you.”

“Missed you?” Marianne echoes with a slight frown. “Are you leaving so soon?”

“But you only just got here!”

Claude pats Lysithea’s hand. “Unfortunately I can’t stay. This was very spur of the moment. Next time I’ll plan ahead a little better.”

“You leave tomorrow, then?” Cyril asks. He shares a look with Lysithea that Claude can’t parse. “That’s a shame.”

“We were hoping you’d traveled all this way to come to our engagement party,” Lysithea says, staring determinedly into her tea as she stirs and stirs. “Would it truly be impossible for you to stay another day?”

Claude looks at Hilda. She remains the picture of innocence. “I had no idea it was tomorrow. I…” He sets down his coffee cup. Grudge or no grudge, he can’t bow out of this. Lysithea deserves better. “I suppose I can make arrangements to stay another day. It won’t make too much difference, in the grand scheme of things.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Hilda chirps. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Thank you, Claude.” Lysithea leans in and pecks him on the cheek. “We appreciate it.”

The tension at the table dissolves, and breakfast resumes with good cheer and ample conversation, mostly from Hilda and Lysithea. Claude answers the occasional question and makes the occasional remark, and it seems to suffice. However, despite everyone’s attentiveness, he can’t help feeling slightly out of place. Whether it’s time or distance or some other unknown factor, he no longer belongs at the center of this group. Instead he is on the fringes, looking in at lives he has only heard bits and pieces of through letters. No matter how dedicated Hilda and Lorenz have been in their correspondence, it is no replacement for real life.

Once breakfast has been had, coffee and tea drunk, and all conversation exhausted, the guests take their leave and Hilda and Claude step out into the garden for a stroll. Hilda has taken up tending to her own flowers, and she’s as proud as a puffed-up peacock as she displays effusive peonies and honeysuckle dripping with dew on the vine.

Eventually, though, she sighs and draws nearer, putting her arm through his as she bends a beaming daylily toward her nose. “Are you still angry with me?”

“I’m not angry,” Claude says, and it’s true. Mildly frustrated, but that’s not exactly new when it comes to Hilda. “You did that on purpose.”

“Did what?”

“Made it so that I had to remain in town a little longer.”

“I didn’t _make_ you do anything, dear. It was your decision to stay.”

“You invited our friends, knowing full well that I’m incapable of denying Lysithea anything. Even if it causes me grief.”

“And is that so great a sin? We all miss you dearly. _I_ miss you.” She leaves the daylily be and plucks a few sprigs of archer’s quorum from the side of the path. The little orange and yellow blossoms, with their strange, pointy shapes, look nothing like an archer, or a quorum—but he supposes, accepting the bouquet graciously, that they sort of mimic the shape of an arrow leaping from the string. Hilda frees one stem from his hand and sets to weaving it through his buttonhole. “Would you really deprive me of your excellent company so soon? Is it your rooms, are they not to your liking?” She glances up at him through her lashes. “Perhaps we can find… other arrangements.”

Claude accepts the makeshift boutonniere, but turns away when she’s finished securing it, pacing further down the path so that she has to hurry to catch up. “The rooms were wonderful. Your attention to detail is admirable, as ever.”

Hilda sighs. “You’re really broken up about this letter business,” she grumbles, only a little peeved at being rebuffed. “Are you still in love with him?”

“ _Still_ is a bit of a reach, don’t you think.”

“I don’t! And you didn’t answer my question.” She walks along at his elbow for a moment or two in flimsy, frazzled silence. Then, when they draw nearer to the house, she takes another path and turns to watch him from over a waist-high fountain of imported Almyran roses. A gift at the announcement of her first engagement, since annulled. “I’m going out this afternoon.” She snaps a fat rosehead easily with a dainty gloved hand and tucks it into the sash beneath her bust for an ornament. “I trust you can amuse yourself while I’m gone.”

He bows, feeling strangely formal. Regretting the distance between them, and knowing he is mostly to blame. “Of course.”

Hilda purses her lips. “Lorenz is going to be at the party tomorrow, by the way.”

“I figured as much.”

“Unless you intend on avoiding him all evening, which will be _quite_ a feat, considering the small guest list, I suggest you get over this bizarre grudge you’re holding. He’ll be devastated to find you so cold and disagreeable.”

With that parting shot, she turns and glides back to the house, head held high. Claude watches her go with a sinking feeling in his gut. She’s right, of course. A morning of distant, stilted conversation can be waved away as travel weariness. Tomorrow, surrounded by all his friends, he will have no such excuse.

His eyes fall to the roses. They’ve done quite well here, despite the unfamiliar climate. He’s sent a different strain to the Gloucester household every year since his coronation for Lorenz’s birthday, gleefully unsigned—a little game, as though Lorenz could have any doubt as to their origin. He wonders what his wife thinks of them.

He wonders when he’s going to stop thinking that. With a sigh, he brushes past the rose bed and makes his way into the house. No more evasion. It’s time to catch the arrow in his teeth.

~

Lucky for him, or perhaps unlucky, early afternoon is the perfect time for calling on one’s friends in society, and it is very likely that the Duke and Duchess are receiving guests, now that the Roundtable is put of session. With this in mind, he takes his time freshening up and changes into something nicer that smacks a little more of home: a short kaftan that could almost be mistaken for a Faerghan tunic, trim breeches and elegant boots with a bit of a heel, and a capelet tucked into the plain gilded sash around his waist in lieu of a belt. Looking into the mirror, it’s a bit reminiscent of his regalia back when he was Duke.

Well, good. Perhaps it will remind Lorenz of the happy evenings they spent in one another’s company. Claude isn’t above a little revenge.

His rented horse has been readied for him when he arrives at the Goneril stables, and his escorts are waiting for him with perfect professional equanimity. There is no more stalling. No more excuses. Claude steels himself and swings into the saddle.

The ride to the Gloucester townhouse is short. Too short. Before he really has a chance to settle into his _just calling on an old friend_ persona, they’re riding through the gates—and _here_ are all the trappings and heraldry he’d expected of the Duchal Palace. Brilliant purple banners stream from the gables, and guards in Gloucester colors stand at their posts. Two come to collect their horses, and when Claude mounts the front steps, a butler in a tasteful muted indigo uniform opens the door to receive him.

“Welcome to House Gloucester, serrah,” he says, bowing low before Claude can even get a word in edgewise. “My apologies, but the Duke is not at home presently. I can take a message if you would like—”

“And the Duchess?” Claude interrupts, too jumpy for politeness.

The butler looks at him oddly for a split second, but it’s quickly smoothed over. “...Also out, my lord. Forgive me.” Another bow. “Shall I inform His Grace when he arrives that you were here? Or would you like to wait?”

Claude would not like to wait, but he has no choice. He’s worked up his courage and come all this way—if he turns back now, he fears he’ll ride right out of the city, onto his ship, and away from Derdriu without looking back, engagement party or no. “I’ll wait,” he says. Then, feeling like a cad, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Of course not, sir. Please, follow me.”

Apparently mollified, the butler leads him to a cozy parlor off the main hall. Claude takes a deep breath, bracing himself to find it redecorated in unfamiliar shades and trappings. But apart from slightly fresher, more modern decor than the last time he was here prior to the old Count’s death, it’s much the same as he remembers.

He’s too antsy to sit still. As soon as the butler departs, he’s on his feet again, pacing back and forth through the room, tracing his fingers over everything. The backs of chairs; the heavy drapes pushed back from the gorgeous bay windows that look out into the street; the honed edges of an enormous palm potted in the sunniest corner. Everything feels like Lorenz, so much that it aches in his breast. Against a far wall is a writing desk, clear of any detritus, but when he peers into one of the drawers he finds familiar stationary and a bottle of ink, the same Lorenz uses to write to him. Claude stands with his hands on the back of the chair and tries to envision him here, bent over the page in the candlelight of evening, hand moving fluidly across the page as he recounts his week.

Credit where credit is due: regardless of his secrets, Lorenz has been keeping up their regular correspondence without fail. His little evening ritual, he calls it. He will have already sent off the most recent installment—very likely they passed one another on the way. But international post moves more slowly than his own personal retinue. It’s entirely possible that he’ll arrive home in time to receive it as usual.

He sighs and turns away from the desk, surveying the room for another distraction. There, against the far wall: bookshelves. _Perfect_. There is nothing more natural and unassuming than a well-read man. He strides back across the room and examines the shelves. A wide selection greets him—natural history, fiction, biographies—but what really catches his eye is the shelf devoted to poetry. He tilts his head, perusing the titles. Brigid verse, Dagdan haiku… ah. His heart leaps a little and he pulls a slim volume free of its brethren. A book of translated Almyran love poems.

The spine falls open easily in his hands, pages unfurling like the halves of a clam shell to expose an unusual pearl within: a folded sheaf of paper. He knows what it is before he even plucks it free. His last letter. Unfolding it only confirms his suspicions. The date across the top is from last week.

Claude stares at the letter, uncomprehending, his own words mirrored back to him as though the words of a stranger. Casual words, friendly words, written easily and without fear or doubt of their reception.

He flips through the pages carefully. All accounted for, the seams of the folds well-worn, as though they’ve been unfolded and refolded again until the paper has started to wear. His heart thuds unkindly in his throat. _What does he mean by it? Does he reread my missives so religiously?_ He looks again at the cover of the book. He was not mistaken before: they’re a collection of translated love poems. And Lorenz has been storing Claude’s letters here.

He’s so distracted by the maelstrom of his own thoughts that the thud of the front door shutting startles him into dropping book and letter both. As quick as he can he collects them and shoves them back into place on the shelf before turning back to the salon.

The door opens, and Lorenz steps into the room. For a moment his eyes dart around, and Claude has a precious few heartbeats to observe him quietly: as tall as ever, hair longer than Claude remembers, face alight with eagerness simmering beneath the surface. Then Lorenz turns and sees him, and he grins, delighted, striding across the room to embrace him. Claude shuts his eyes and hugs him back, breathing in his floral perfume.

“Claude,” Lorenz says softly, wonderingly. Barely a breath in his ear. Then he pulls back, gripping Claude’s shoulders and giving him a gentle shake. “Look at you! Saints, I hardly recognized you—how long have you been in town? How could you not write to me beforehand? Ah! Was it meant to be a surprise?” He laughs, a joyful pealing bell, and hugs him again more briefly. “It’s wonderful to see you regardless. Forgive me, I don’t mean to run on, I’m just so thrilled to see you. Can I call for tea? Something stronger?”

“I… tea, yes, absolutely.” Absorbed in his whirlwind, head devoid of thought, Claude allows himself to be shepherded to a settee where he sits, breathless, while Lorenz goes to the door to call for a tea service.

The physical space gives him a moment to regroup, but all he can do is admire what he sees: a lively, energetic man who, while slightly careworn about the eyes, nevertheless appears utterly content with his lot. He’s dressed just as exuberantly as Claude remembers, in a beautiful doublet with slashed lilac-alizarin sleeves and a long, draped sort of bodice in the same deep crimson material with a subtle blooming rose print. Jewels glint beneath his fall of hair and on his fingers, and his hose are largely hidden by elegant heeled boots that climb to just above the knee.

Stunning, as always. Claude tries to be happy that his wife isn’t attempting to curtail Lorenz’s more eccentric tastes and force him into traditionally masculine clothes.

_His wife. His wife. His wife._

He has to put an end to this.

“So! What brings you to Derdriu on such short notice?” Lorenz asks, swanning back to settle at Claude’s side on the settee.

“Well,” Claude begins, and stops. _No more_. “I came to see you, actually.”

“Me?” There’s a throaty quality of Lorenz’s voice, surprise edged with velvet intrigue. Not at all embarrassed or ashamed of himself.

“Yes, you.” Claude draws up slightly, holding himself as regally as one can while seated on another man’s davenport. “I hear there have been some rather large changes in your life recently.”

Lorenz’s curious smile wavers. “Ah. I see.” A heavy pause passes between them, and when he next speaks his voice is low and solemn. “Forgive me for not writing you about it. I tried, many times, but…” His self-conscious laugh echoes awkwardly in the mostly-empty sitting room. “How does one convey such news in a letter?”

 _Quite easily_ , Claude thinks sadly. But it would be cruel to say it aloud, so he withholds it, though it burns in his chest like an angry coal. “Regardless, it seems congratulations are in order,” he says, more brusque than the felicitations warrant. “Who is she? Clearly not one of our cohort from school, which I admit surprised me, but I suppose love can blossom even off the battlefield.”

Lorenz stares, and for a moment the room is very quiet. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your wife,” Claude says at last, frustrated into giving it voice. “You’ll have to forgive Hilda her big mouth—in her last letter she mentioned there was a Duchess of Gloucester. Of course I was surprised, but I… I’m happy for you.” He swallows the lie’s bitterness down, a most unpleasant medicine. “And your wife, naturally.”

Lorenz continues to stare, such that Claude can feel the prickle of his scrutiny under his skin. Then, horribly, Lorenz starts to laugh, though he quickly modulates himself to a trembling smile that can’t quite hide behind his hand. “Forgive me. My dear, I am not married.”

Now it is Claude’s turn to stare. _My dear?_ How strange, that two little words should make him feel as though he’s teetering on the edge of a very high cliff. “What? But… but Hilda said there was a Duchess of Gloucester. In her last letter.”

“There is,” Lorenz says patiently, smiling. “You’re looking at her.”

_Oh._

Claude wonders if this is what it’s like to be struck by lightning. _You idiot_ , his brain clamors, scrambling to shove the puzzle pieces together as his world tilts and realigns. He still hasn’t managed to gather his thoughts before Lorenz is pressing on, gentle and gallant as ever.

“Hilda did not explain the entire situation out of respect for me, which was kind of her, but I fear it has caused you unnecessary grief.” They take Claude’s hand, and their own is soft and slightly cool, like a soft breeze on a hot day. “I’m still me. Still _Lorenz_ _Hellman_ _Gloucester_.” The spin they put on the name makes Claude smile instinctively, and Lorenz smiles back. “I simply realized, after much reflection, that some days I felt more like a woman than a man, and some days I felt somewhere in between. And after many, many unwanted letters of suit from all corners of Fódlan, which I grew tired of rebuffing, I decided… why not live as I am? There _is_ a Duchess of Gloucester, and a Duke. It just so happens that they are one and the same. If people misunderstand and so neglect to send their daughters to hound me at parties, so much the better. Unfortunately it seems that my plan worked a little _too_ well.”

Their brow furrows with concern and Claude feels himself deflate into the settee’s stiff brocade, all the tension and agitation of the last few days bleeding out of him at once. At his side Lorenz’s smile slips, and they make to withdraw their hand—but Claude tightens his own shock-slack grip and refuses to let go.

“You are not… upset, I hope?” Lorenz ventures.

“ _Upset_ —no, gods no. I’m sorry, I…” He stares at Lorenz with new eyes, new appreciation. “I’ve been such a fool.” He laughs at himself, rubs his forehead with his free hand. He’s still holding Lorenz’s hand—Lorenz, who is perched on the edge of the cushion as if prepared to flee. Remorse breaks over him like a wave and Claude lifts their hand to his lips for a genteel kiss. “I’ve been a right idiot about this. My lady, forgive me. Or is it my lord, today?”

Lorenz’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and it’s only now that Claude spies the subtle smudge of kohl lining their lashes. “There is nothing whatsoever to forgive. And it is both, today, whichever strikes your fancy.”

“Oh Lorenz.” Claude squeezes their hand. “I missed you.”

“And I you,” Lorenz whispers. “Every day.”

Too weak-kneed with relief to risk standing, Claude contents himself with kissing their hand again, and this time Lorenz curls their palm against his jaw, smooth except the callouses they bear from years of lancefaire. “Lorenz…”

“Hmm?”

“I have been… neglectful, I fear.”

Lavender eyes sparkle curiously. “How do you mean?”

“We never really spoke about… what we were to each other, before I left.”

Like clouds parting before the sun, understanding dawns on Lorenz’s face. “Oh. _Oh no_ , I see. When Hilda said _Duchess_ , and you thought I had wed…”

Claude winces the full brunt of his stupidity being bared. “Yes. I was… well, jealous is putting it mildly. I was angry, and sad, and I felt a right fool for letting you slip through my fingers.” He takes a steadying breath. “Regardless. These last few days have been a sharp reminder that time is precious, and shouldn’t be wasted. I was waiting, but for what I couldn’t tell you now. I love you, Lorenz. I have for a long time, and being separated has not impeded my feelings for you in the least. I don’t pretend to know your mind, or what you desire, and I don’t want to ask anything of you—only to tell you, plainly, that I love you. I _adore_ you.”

“Claude.” Lorenz’s eyes are wet, their voice brittle with emotion. They lean in, fingers still curled against his collar, and kiss him gently. Their lips are soft and taste of bitter tea and sweet rouge. Claude lets go of their hand and kisses back, arms coming up instinctively to hold them closer.

“Lorenz.” Claude finally pulls away and leaps to his feet, antsy energy playing over him like lightning. “I must beg your forgiveness, and your patience—”

“Claude…”

“I didn’t come prepared, I don’t even have a ring, but Lorenz…” Heedless of the half-open door, of his empty pockets, Claude drops to his knees before the settee and puts his hand to his breast. “Lorenz, will you marry me?”

Lorenz laughs—not hurtfully, but Claude still recoils slightly with the sting of being so easily rebuffed. But Lorenz reaches for his hands before he can pull away and kisses him sweetly on the cheek to placate him. “I’ve never seen you so impulsive, my dear. Usually you have a plan for every possible eventuality, and then some.”

“Yes, well.” Claude drops his forehead to Lorenz’s knee in shame. “I thought you were married,” he says in a muffled voice. “I haven’t felt so helpless in years.”

Long, delicate fingers comb through his hair, teasing tendrils free of the gilded clasp at the back of his head. “Court me properly,” Lorenz says, even as the tension softens and fades from Claude’s shoulders, the nape of his neck. “Send me buckets of flowers—”

“I do! Every birthday!”

“Send me more, then,” Lorenz says loftily, followed by a poorly-stifled giggle. “Visit more often. Let me grow accustomed to the idea. It’s terribly romantic, charging in here without a single thought in your head—”

“I beg your pardon, I had _many_ thoughts in my head. More than I knew what to do with.”

“Clearly.” Lorenz presses cool knuckles to his cheek, coaxing his head up. “I’m not saying no. But we’re not schoolboys anymore.”

“Even then we knew better than to leap headfirst, I suppose.” Rueful, but enamored as ever, Claude kneels up and touches his knuckle to their chin. “Would it be terribly improper to kiss you right now?”

“Oh, extremely. But you _did_ come all this way…”

Claude laughs and kisses them. They taste just like he remembers, kisses back the way they used to when the only comfort they had in the world was each other. Claude moves slow at first, caught up in the reverie; but then Lorenz moans and it’s like a match struck in a dark room, hot and bright and sudden. Claude catches their lip between his teeth and succumbs to the urge to put his hands around their waist, narrow and stiff with corsetry beneath their doublet.

“Claude…”

“Mm?” He nuzzles the pale, fragrant softness of their throat and smiles at the feel of hands in his hair.

“The door… someone could call at any moment.”

“So close the door.” Claude succumbs to the urge to put his hand up their skirt, stroking Lorenz’s hip through the thin material of their hose. Their knees part to invite him closer, but he slows his advance, watching the play of emotions over their face. “What is it?”

“Remember the last time we did this?”

“Vividly.”

“I can hardly believe we were so cavalier. Well, I can believe it of _you_.”

“We had just won a war,” Claude murmurs. “Exhaustion makes fools of us all.”

Lorenz’s faintly-rouged lips quirk in a half smile. “And now?”

“I’ve just traveled from another _country_. I’m terribly exhausted, practically dead on my feet—”

“You’re on your knees at the moment.”

“And here I shall remain, unless you direct me otherwise.” Claude casts them a demure look from under his lashes just to hear Lorenz choke with laughter. He leans in, feathering a kiss to their collarbone, and is starting to fondle the laces of their bodice when he hears footsteps coming down the hall.

“Claude—”

“I heard.” He stands upright so fast his knees audibly pop. “ _Fuck_.”

Lorenz stands, too, dithering briefly, but they stand too close together for propriety and so they sit again, folding the skirts of their doublet over their lap with a look of befuddlement marring their lovely face. “Don’t swear,” they hiss, and Claude coughs a laugh into his handkerchief, rounding the couch to stand behind it—not a moment too soon.

The butler steps in, cool and professional as he keeps his eyes straight ahead and announces, “Her Ladyship Hilda Valentine Goneril, of House Goneril,” in measured tones.

Lorenz clears their throat and tidies their hair with a glance at Claude, who is trying very hard not to look put out. “Yes of course. Show her in, please.”

The butler nods and withdraws, and just a moment later Hilda herself swans in, skirt and shawl fluttering behind her, looking unbearably smug. She goes to Lorenz first, brandishing a kiss on the cheek and a pointed, “Duchess,” before turning to extend her hand to Claude. He brushes his lips to her knuckles, eyes averted.

“Well!” Hilda flops onto the couch opposite them, practically sparkling with glee. “I’m glad to see you two have kissed and made up.”

Claude scowls and seats himself. “You could have said something.”

“Of course I couldn’t! I thought you knew, and when I realized you didn’t, well, it was hardly _my_ place to say, was it?”

“Hmph. I suppose not.”

“And it worked out all right in the end, didn’t it?”

“It would appear so,” Lorenz says gently, clearly attempting to smooth things over. “I _am_ sorry for the bumpy ride, Claude.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Well, it sort of was, but I understand. It can be difficult to convey all the nuance in a letter.” Claude takes their hand and holds it on the cushion between them. “I’m only sorry I let my foolishness get the better of me.”

“Forgiven,” Hilda says promptly, before Lorenz can accept. “I admit it was a bit of fun on my end, but I hated to see you so upset, Claude. _See_ , aren’t you glad you came to investigate for yourself?”

Claude sighs, reluctantly amused. “I suppose so.”

“You _suppose_ , bah. And now you have more reason to stay another night!”

“Just one more?” Lorenz asks, face falling.

“Well.” Claude fidgets. “Before, I didn’t think there was a point to hanging around. But now… well, I’m here, aren’t I. It would be a bit silly to turn around and sail back so soon.”

“ _Exactly_.” Hilda preens, then deflates slightly. “I suppose you’ll be wanting your things sent over here, won’t you. So much for my Almyran Suite…!”

“It was lovely,” Claude placates. “But, erm… I mean I don’t want to invite myself over…”

“You are always welcome here,” Lorenz says firmly. “Of course I shan’t fight Hilda for your company, but it only seems fair that you split your time equally between us.”

Hilda laughs. “Oh you silly, I won’t pretend to compete with the beautiful Duchess Gloucester.” She winks. “I know that look, Claude. Just as smitten as you were at school, I see.”

“Maybe just a little.” Claude feels the gentle squeeze of a hand around his own and smiles at his shoes.

“And tomorrow is the engagement party, and now you can attend together! How perfect. You see how well I engineered everything?”

Lorenz perks up at this. “You’re coming to the party?”

“It would appear so. Lysithea would have strong words with me if I tried to get out of it, even if I wished to.” Remembering her request, Claude turns to Lorenz and asks, hand formally extended, “May I have the honor of escorting you, Your Grace?”

Lorenz smiles demurely, but their eyes sparkle with unfiltered delight as they place their hand in Claude’s. “It would be my pleasure, Your Highness.”

Across the coffee table Hilda makes an exaggerated gagging sound, but neither of them are paying attention.

~

Despite their reconciliation, Claude sees less of Lorenz in the following twenty-four hours than he would like. Both Lorenz and Hilda, upon finding that Claude did not pack any party attire, insist upon arranging something last-minute, which results in a bit of a wild goose chase throughout upper Derdriu in search of a seamstress to attend him on such short notice. Even with their sartorial powers combined, it takes some doing—and then Claude is stuck standing on a box in his underthings being measured and poked and pinned for the majority of his second day in Leicester. His only saving grace is that Ignatz and Leonie have arrived in town, and take it upon themselves to entertain him while he’s stuck playing human dressform.

But somehow, everything comes together. By evening he’s appropriately garbed on the steps of the Gloucester townhouse, a bouquet in one hand and his escort lingering at a discreet distance in the courtyard’s long shadows. This time when the butler opens the door, there’s no confusion—he bows low and admits Claude in straightaway, and summons a page to take him upstairs to the Duke’s private quarters.

Left alone at the door to her dressing room, Claude takes a bracing breath of the bouquet in his hand. Roses, of course, and other things: Queenslace, and archer’s quorum, and a delicate purple spear-shaped flower that Fodlaners call crowsfoot, but Claude knows as spurflower. The delicate inner petals are hidden from view as they bow demurely amongst their brethren. A humble flower, hiding unexpected elegance and grace. Claude reaches out and knocks.

Almost immediately the door is opened by a maid, who gasps with delight to see the bouquet. “I’ll just fetch some water for them—you can go in,” she adds, a touch slyly, before whisking away down the hall. Claude pushes into the room and looks about.

It’s a beautifully appointed sitting room much like Hilda’s, only in a slightly different color palette; but Claude’s eyes are drawn past the divan and the drapes to the elegant figure standing by the open window. From behind he can see that Lorenz’s hair is up and fixed with tiny pearls, showing off a long neck and sloping shoulders currently enshrined in an embroidered shawl. Beneath the shawl’s fringe, layered skirts fall to the floor in a lavender mist, dotted with the same dewdrop-shaped pearls that adorn her hair.

Lorenz doesn’t turn, so Claude lays the bouquet carefully on a side table and treads across the thick layered carpets to join her at the window. All it takes is a delicate touch to the small of her back. Lorenz inhales and turns toward him, smiling, features made more striking by the precise application of kohl around her eyes.

“I’m not late, am I?” Claude asks.

“No.” Lorenz bows and for a moment Claude thinks she’s moving in for a kiss; but instead she rests their foreheads together and drapes her hands over his shoulders, gripping him as if to steady herself.

“All right?”

“Fine. I’m just… glad you’re here.”

Claude smiles, brushing their noses together. “As am I.”

Before their lips can touch, footsteps come down the hall, and Lorenz pulls away as the maid returns, eyes cast downward carefully. “For the flowers, milady,” she says with a quick curtsy.

“Flowers? What flowers— _oh_.”

“A bit paltry, I know,” Claude says, taking the vase the maid brought and situating the bouquet in it carefully. “You’ll have to forgive me, I spent most of today in a tailor’s shop.”

Lorenz ignores the gentle dig and comes to take the flowers from him. “These are beautiful, Claude, thank you.”

“Almost as beautiful as you,” Claude teases.

Lorenz casts him a fondly disapproving look that sizzles pleasantly under the collar. “That will be all, Adiera, thank you.”

The maid. Claude had forgotten she was still there. He folds his hands behind his back, head bowed as she departs—then, when the door closes gently behind her, opens his arms as Lorenz swoops into them and kisses him in earnest. Claude laughs and grips her waist, eager to taste her. “Your makeup—”

“No rouge today,” Lorenz whispers against his lips. “For this—exact—reason. _Mm_.”

When they part a minute or three later, her cheeks are pleasantly flushed and Claude feels a little hot under the collar—but, he must admit, she doesn’t need the rouge. Her lips and face are rosy and glowing plenty without it.

“We should go down,” Lorenz says, sounding as reluctant as Claude feels. “The carriage will be ready any moment.”

She puts her shawl away, baring her arms to the warm night and Claude’s warm gaze. Her dress is lower-cut than he realized, squared off with flimsy tulle sleeves and a deep V-shape where the halves of the bodice are left unlaced. Between them, half-hidden behind a delicate lace trim, he can see a bit of cleavage that wasn’t present the last time they were intimate.

It thrills him to wonder what else has changed about the landscape of his lover, but there is no time to dwell on it. Lorenz slips her hand through his elbow to guide him downstairs, and he can only follow, breathing in the faint familiar rose perfume clings to her hair and gown.

“You look very handsome, by the way,” Lorenz says as they enter the waiting carriage and sit—quite shockingly—side by side instead of across from one another. The night isn’t cool, but she leans up against his side anyway, inviting the clasp of his hand around her waist. “I meant to tell you before. Yesterday.”

“Yesterday I was a raving mess,” Claude objects.

“You were _passionate_. There’s a difference. I like the longer hair, and the beard. It suits you.”

“And does my attire pass muster?”

Lorenz pulls away slightly to inspect him in the scant lantern light coming through the window. “Very much so,” she murmurs. She settles the folds of his cravat for him, and her fingers linger at his jaw, his shoulder. “You will certainly not embarrass me.”

“Damn. Embarrassing you is my favorite pastime.”

“ _Hmph_. I’ll consider myself lucky to have escaped that fate tonight, then.”

Claude grins and rests his hand on her knee, finding an unexpected slit in her skirt that allows him to stroke smooth skin. “Don’t count your chickens just yet, love. The night has only just begun.”

It’s an idle threat, and they both know it. This evening is about Lysithea and Cyril, and despite the unintended dramatics of his arrival in Derdriu, Claude is determined to recede into the background and let them have their day.

The Ordelia estate, though not quite as large as the Riegan apartments or as ornate as those of Gloucester and Goneril, is nevertheless a glittering gem tonight, glowing from within by the light of a thousand candles twinkling in a hundred chandeliers. Cyril, smiling past the naturally stern set of his brow, has been convinced to dress up, and is greeting guests as they arrive in a fine doublet of dark green, his cheek adorned with a faint smudge of lipstick that no one has seen fit to mention to him yet. At his side, Lysithea is petite and resplendent in a pale violet-grey gown gathered at the ribs instead of the waist, her hair shining nearly silver beneath the matching veil.

“You look stunning,” Claude says when he kisses her cheek in greeting. “You caught me a bit unprepared, so expect your present in the mail in a few weeks.”

“Having you here is present enough, silly.” She squeezes him tightly, more tightly than he dares to embrace her in return. “We’re so glad you’re here. We _all_ are.”

Her eyes cut sideways to where Lorenz is chatting with Cyril, a pinnacle of beauty in her own right, but still careful not to upstage their hostess. As he looks, she happens to catch his eye, and they share a glance, a question he doesn’t know how to answer. It only lasts for the span of a heartbeat, but when he looks back Lysithea is smirking.

“What is _that_ look for?”

“I think you know. Enjoy it while you’re here, won’t you? Hold it close to your heart for when you leave us again.”

“Enjoy what?” Claude says, baffled, even though he thinks he knows what she means.

Lysithea doesn’t respond, turning instead to greet their next wave of guests, and Claude is left to follow helplessly in Lorenz’s wake, adrift in a society he’s forgotten how to take part in.

He must look rather lost, because Lorenz links their arms together firmly and does not abandon his side all night. It’s a smallish gathering by Derdriu standards, but there are still plenty of people he doesn’t know, or has forgotten; Lorenz takes care to introduce him to whoever they meet, though she calls him Lord von Riegan instead of the fucking _King of Almyra_ , which is just mysterious enough to be interesting without causing undue gossip.

There is food and drink and dancing, all of it informal, with ample breaks for toasts and small speeches for the happy couple. Despite wanting to stay out of the spotlight, Claude permits himself to be harangued by a cheerfully drunk Leonie into giving public congratulations of his own. He even stands on a chair to do it, and embarrasses Lysithea thoroughly with an anecdote or two from school. It’s a bit surreal, glossing over the ugly, dirty, difficult parts—trading war stories for children’s tall tales—but he gets a round of applause when he’s done and Lysithea makes a rude gesture at him, so he thinks he did all right.

“You’re going to be the talk of the town for weeks to come,” Lorenz tells him later, as they stroll through the moonlight gardens. Although the Round Table keeps her busy, Lysithea still finds time to tend the flowers with her parents, a familial pastime whose labors now bear magnificent fruit. Claude lets his fingers trail through a veil of brilliant white clematis and rubs the dew off on his trousers.

“I suppose I can live with that. Saman won’t be pleased, though.”

“Your spymaster?”

“That is one word for what he does, yes. Minister of Intelligence, officially.”

“I suppose introducing you as Lord von Riegan is only delaying the inevitable.”

“The inevitable being…”

“The King of Almyra making an unofficial visit to foreign territory.”

“We are allied nations,” Claude says easily. “And I didn’t exactly announce my presence, but I didn’t make a secret of it, either. Anyway, you weren’t lying—Lord von Riegan _is_ one of my titles.”

“One of many,” Lorenz murmurs. Her arm shivers against his, the barest concession to the chill.

“Are you cold?”

“Perhaps a little. But I don’t want to go inside.”

“No?” He swings his jacket from his shoulders—lined in silk, but heavy with tawny-colored wool and still warm from his body—and drapes it over hers instead. “You seemed so at ease.”

“I was. I am. But I can speak to any one of the people in that room any day of the week. _You_ are a harder-won prize.” Lorenz tucks her chin into the collar, breathing in deeply. “It smells like you.”

“As it should, I’ve been wearing it all night.”

“I missed it.” She walks a few more paces before realizing Claude is no longer at her side. “Claude?”

“Wait just there.” He lets his hands fall to his trouser pockets, trying to fix the picture of her like this in his mind. Tall, ephemeral, the pale lavender color of her gown fading into the cloaking grey of the garden at midnight. Moonlight shimmers in her hair and turns the pearls she wears to gemstones. The borrowed cloak becomes a rich mantle over her shoulders, her eyes like slate turned silver in the wake of a heavy rain. “I want to remember this.”

She blushes, he thinks, though the darkness makes it difficult to see. “I can have a portrait done, if it would please you.”

“It would, yes. It would please me greatly.” He comes further along the path, heart in his throat. “But it would be no replacement for the vision you are tonight.”

When Claude reaches up, Lorenz leans down, tucking her jaw against his palm like a book sliding neatly onto its shelf. Perfectly appointed. Claude holds her face between his hands a moment, just looking, before moving to draw the borrowed coat around her more securely.

“I love you,” she says, and swallows. “I don’t—I don’t know if I told you, before.”

“It was implied,” Claude says magnanimously.

“Well, now I must say it. I feel…”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.” She half-laughs, turning her face away but still holding him close. “I’ve been stifling it for so long and now it’s overflowing, overwhelming… I told myself I was imagining it whenever something in your letters was particularly romantic, or touched my heart a certain way. And you loved me all this time.”

“Forgive me,” he whispers. He leans up on tip-toe just to rest his brow to hers, fond and familiar. “For keeping it from you, and for acting like a spurned lover when I had no right.”

“Neither of those things require my forgiveness,” Lorenz says, “but I’ll give it if it will make you feel better.”

“It will,” he admits.

“Then I forgive you. But please do not stay away for so long this time. It was difficult before, but now I think… I won’t be able to bear it.”

“I’ll come to you as often as I can,” Claude promises, wincing under the weight of responsibility already nipping at his heels. “And you must visit me, of course. You will be received in state, with every luxury you could wish for, every accommodation—”

“The only luxury I wish for is _you_ , ridiculous man.” Lorenz touches the silver at his temple with delicate fingers, traces the weary lines already developing on his brow. A paltry sort of crown, but just as heavy. “I know there is much to consider, and to plan, but we have come too far not to _try_.”

“I agree.” Claude slips an arm around her waist and holds her closer still, sighing when she bows like a tree in a gale to kiss his brow. “I love you.”

She kisses his lips for answer, and when a burst of distant laughter filters across the still garden through an open window, she draws him deeper, along the winding paths until they come to a gazebo enshrined in aged wisteria. The vines are as thick and sturdy as twisting tree trunks, the blossoms heavy and fragrant as they slowly shed their petals on the ground like snow. Lorenz’s skirts rustle over flowered stone as she mounts the steps and pushes aside a delicate curtain to reveal the cushioned benches inside.

“How fortuitous.” Claude gazes up through the slatted trellis, thick with flowers, to the clear moon shining full beyond. “Though I suspect we are not the only lovers privy to this place.”

“I think between us we have sufficient rank to drive them off.” Lorenz drops onto a bench and pats the cushion beside her. “Sit with me.”

“Will we not be missed?”

“Not for a little while longer.”

In the darkness, Lorenz’s mischievous smile draws him in to sit beside her, ankle tucked under knee to cleave close together. He thinks back to what Lysithea had said. _Enjoy it while you’re here._ He thinks now he knows what she means.

“I’d like to kiss you,” he says. “If that’s all right.”

“You don’t have to ask,” Lorenz whispers, and leans in.

Time sort of dissolves with the taste of her mouth, like a sugar cube in a fresh cup of tea. He keeps himself in check at first, keeps his tongue to himself and his hands in hers; but Lorenz kisses him like she’s starving for it, sheds his coat to wrap him in her arms and press their bodies close, and Claude is only human.

He starts slow. Knuckles to the inside of her elbow. Her lower lip between his teeth. Tongue in the notch of her collarbone. A strand of her hair come loose and wound between his fingers. She gives as good as she gets, nipping his palm, hands sprawled leisurely over the planes of his chest. His waistcoat comes undone in the front five minutes, cravat unspooled to expose his throat for her perusal.

“There’s more of you than I remember,” Lorenz breathes as he crawls over her supine form, pressing her back against the plentiful cushions. “You’re sturdier. Stronger.”

“Almyrans are fond of tests. Feats of strength. Ceremonial combat.” He flexes beneath her admiring hands. “I take my wins seriously.” Delicately, he brushes the lace piping that follows the plunging line of her décolletage. “Can I…”

“Why do you think I wore this dress?” Lorenz counters. Her hands find his, coaxing them to fit the shape of her breasts through stiff, embroidered fabric. Claude parts the halves of her bodice with his thumbs and bows his head to kiss the soft skin revealed there.

“There’s more of you, too,” he murmurs, breathing her in. The laces surrender readily to his fingers, and soon he’s holding her in his hands, soft and malleable except where her nipples tighten at his touch.

“Faith magic has a great many uses,” Lorenz gasps, “as you well know.”

“Mmmm. The goddess is bountiful indeed.”

Lorenz sputters with laughter, but it swiftly becomes a moan instead as Claude drags his tongue first over one nipple and then the other. The edging of her unlaced bodice brushes his cheek, but it only adds to the thrill, knowing that this assignation could be interrupted at any moment. Lorenz doesn’t seem to mind. She sighs and moans quietly into her wrist at his attentions, and when he slips a hand up her thigh through the slit in her skirts, she parts her legs to grant him access to her lacy underthings.

“How much has changed, since I bedded you last?” he asks, giggling when she tweaks his ear. “What? It’s a perfectly legitimate question!”

“Your courtly language could use some work, Your Majesty.”

“Forgive me. Since the last time we made love.” He kisses her bare thigh, truly reticent, and is rewarded with a hand in his hair.

“Put that handsome mouth to work and find out.”

Claude has limited experience with the various options available in Fodlan, but he has no doubt that whatever lies beneath Lorenz’s skirts is what makes her feel most herself. With a gentle hand he shrugs one lean thigh over his shoulder and ducks beneath the yards of pearl-studded tulle. He kisses along her inner thigh, slow, listening to her tremulous breaths huffing gently against the plump wisteria. One side and the other. Then, when his cheek grazes her erection, he kisses that too, following the length from root to tip beneath flimsy cloth. The fingers in his hair grow tight, almost painfully so, but forcibly relax as he licks the taste of salt from his lips.

“Should I keep going?” he murmurs, feeling slightly silly with the curtain of her skirts between them. But the fabric is flimsy, and he can hear her breathless _please_ with perfect clarity.

He fumbles only a little with the laces of her smallclothes—she laughs at him, but he protests the dark and is forgiven—then takes her into his mouth. This part of her is much the same as he remembers, long and slim like the rest of her with a plump, round head that fits neatly against his palate. He holds her there, lips slick along the shaft, feeling her heartbeat against his tongue. Then, when she squirms, he swallows her down with only a bit of awkwardness, til his beard meets her bollocks and her shivering thighs clasp his ears fit to deafen him.

He can taste it when she draws close, the bitter tang blooming salty on his tongue. But her hand draws him away with a practiced tug to his hair, and he sits back on his heels, breathing hard as he fights his way out of her skirts to look at her.

“Will you sleep with me tonight?” she asks.

Claude half-laughs, bemused by the question. “Of course, dearheart. I had my men bring my things to Gloucester earlier this afternoon.”

“No. I mean, will you _sleep_ with me. Share my bed, and my…”

Claude licks his lips. “I thought that’s what we were doing right now.”

“I want more than that,” she whispers. She looks almost fierce in the silver light, hair coming loose in wisps and whorls around her ruddy face. “I want you to _have_ me. As much and as hard as you like. I want—”

“Lorenz, Lorenz.” He kneels up and takes her hands, kisses each one in turn. “Of course. I’ll fuck you til you forget your own name. But right now…”

“I want to see you.” Bashful, but with a determined set to her kiss-bruised mouth, Lorenz gathers her skirts up around her waist, exposing milky thighs and undone drawers and, standing proudly, her erection still reddened and slick from Claude’s mouth. “Come here.”

The order—and it _is_ an order, not a request—thrills Claude down to his bones, throbs between his legs like the insistent shrill of a hunting horn. He stands obediently, not bothering to dust off his knees. Wisteria petals stick to his trousers and fall from his hair as he he loosens his belt and kicks off his boots. “I’m coming,” he assures her gently. His trousers fall, and his smalls. With only his shirt to billow around him like a nightgown, he climbs into her lap and kisses her.

“Claude…” Lorenz inhales against his lips, hands scrabbling over his thighs, tracing over fine downy hairs and the criss-cross of old, familiar scars. When she finds the core of him, hot and wet and ready, Claude growls and sinks his teeth into her shoulder to keep from crying out.

“I will have you later,” he promises, “but will you take me first? Right now?”

“Yes.” She takes hold of his hips beneath his shirt, thumb to the line of muscle that points like an arrow between his thighs. “ _Yes._ ”

Lorenz is heavy in his palm, leaking at the tip when he rubs his thumb over her. She shivers, watching with luminous eyes as he leans down, careful, and takes her into his body. Slow. Tulle tickles his inner thighs when he sinks down, lifts again; wisteria petals shake loose and fall around them, dappling his shoulders, her breasts.

She stretches him just like she used to, when they were young and warlike, exhausted all the time, aching in places he’s since forgotten. When Claude moans aloud, it’s with all the recklessness of youth, brash as a young knight who’s just been granted his very first blade. He remembers how it felt, the first time, weary and hopeless and desperate for the creature comfort of another body. Skin to skin, sticky with sweat. The sound of Lorenz coming undone into the pillow. How far they’ve come, he thinks, fists full of tulle and lungs full of the smell of night-blooming flowers. How far they have yet to go.

He bows his head to kiss her, chasing the brink. She trembles beneath his weight, and though her hands are softer now, her nails perfectly manicured, her grip is as strong as ever; the seams of his shirt fray and splinter as she drags at him, holding him in place. Bliss washes over her face, her kisses growing slow and inattentive.

“Beautiful,” he whispers. With his hips flush to hers, the full weight of her inside him, he rubs clumsily at his cock and smothers his cries into the crook of his elbow. “Lorenz, fuck—”

“Again.” She pushes his hand away and trades it for her own, knuckles pressing hard against the root of him. The dual sensations strip him of all defenses, and he sobs into her hair as she drives him mercilessly to the brink a second time.

He sags against her afterward, nose buried into the sweat-dappled hair at her temple. Between them her softened member slips free of his body, and he tightens instinctively around nothing at all, wishing he could keep her closer. “We shouldn’t linger,” he mumbles. “We’ll be missed.” But he doesn’t move, even when she licks her fingers clean and weaves them through his hair to tidy it.

“I think we’ll be forgiven if we slip out early.” Lorenz rights the front of her bodice and laces the halves back together, smiling when Claude makes a sound of despair in the back of his throat. “We’ve paid our proper respects.”

Claude climbs off her with some difficulty, wincing at the protests of his knees. A trickle of spend slips down his inner thigh, but he ignores it and stoops to gather his clothes and put them back on in some semblance of proper order. Trousers, boots, waistcoat, cravat. This last she ties for him, brushing off the wisteria petals that collected in its folds while it lay discarded on the ground. He lifts his chin to give her more room to work and smirks when she glances at his lips instead.

“None of that,” she murmurs. “Do not distract me, or I’ll make a mess of you.”

“You already have,” he reminds her. He steps a little closer, nudging her skirts away with his toe. “I can still feel you inside me—”

“ _Claude_.”

“Yes, my love?”

With a flustered moue affixed to her mouth, she finishes tying his cravat and lays her hands on his breast. “You are incorrigible.”

“You love it.”

“I love _you_.”

“Is that not what I said?” he teases, and tests the span of his hands around her waist. Corseted like this, his thumbs nearly meet in the center. “How do I look?”

“ _Almost_ like you haven’t been rolling about in a field.” She gathers her skirts in her hands and gives them a good shake, shedding a few more petals; but the layers of tulle are tricky, and cling stubbornly to the bits of flowers and stems they’ve collected over the last quarter-hour. “I suppose my gown is beyond repair.”

“So we went for a walk in the garden. There‘s no shame in that.”

“I am not ashamed of you, Claude von Riegan.” Her voice takes on a haughty tone, chin lifted as if to defy some nonexistent naysayer. “Come.” She scoops his jacket off the bench, gives it a brushing, and holds it up for him to slide into. “You made me a promise tonight, and I intend to collect. Let us make our excuses and be on our way.”

“I am at your service, my lady,” he murmurs, settling his cuffs before turning to offer her his arm. “As always.”

The clocktowers are chiming two in the morning by the time their carriage returns to Gloucester, but Claude doesn’t feel tired. The evening has developed an ethereal quality, like something out of a fairytale: whimsical and sharp-edged with excitement. When they climb out at the front step, Claude spins her about before letting her down, and Lorenz laughs aloud without remembering to stifle it.

Upstairs, a fire burns low in the grate and the dressing room smells of flowers. It’s easy to pretend that they’ve always done this, like putting on a familiar pair of slippers: Lorenz behind her changing screen, plucking pearl-tipped pins from her hair while Claude helps unlace her from her finery. In stocking-feet, his coat and cravat discarded, he lounges on the settee afterward with a fresh pot of tea, watching her comb out her hair at the vanity, wrapped in a silk dressing gown embroidered with roses.

These little intimacies are new, though they feel well-worn. During the war they hadn’t had the luxury of time, and only once—at the very end, in a strange bed in a foreign palace—had they spent more than a mere hour or two in one another’s company this way.

“When must you leave?” she asks him much, much later, after they’ve mussed her sheets and worked up such a sweat between them that they flung open the windows to admit the predawn breeze. She is tucked against his side like a wax seal pressed inextricably to its envelope—at least until the hot knife comes to separate them once again.

“I have already stayed later than I meant to.” He runs the backs of his fingers down her arm from shoulder to elbow and back again, leisurely. “I sent word to Nader while I was out yesterday. He’ll be expecting me by the end of the week.”

“Today, then.”

He exhales regret through his nose, breathes in sweat and faint perfume. “My captain tells me the tide runs out at eight in the evening. A good time for setting sail.”

“I suppose that’s more than I ever expected to receive.” She nuzzles closer still, fingers petting through the hair on his chest. “I’ll come with you to the docks. Unofficially,” she adds, perhaps feeling him grow tense beneath her hand. “I’ll even wear a veil, if you like.”

“Wear whatever you please, my duchess,” he murmurs. Her hair runs through his fingers like silk, softened from its stiff pomade by the sweat of their earlier exertions. “When can you be spared to visit me in Almyra?”

“The last session of the season begins next week. I was planning on returning to Gloucester lands afterward to oversee the harvest, but that can be cut short. My seneschal is quite capable.” She sits up then, hair cascading down her back, breasts bared as the sheets pool around her waist. She’s like a statue come to life, or a goddess— _the_ goddess, Claude might say, except that he has met the creature that called herself such and knows that Lorenz, in all their glory, is far and away the person to whom he’d prefer to bend his knee.

“What is it?” he asks. Looking at her the way she looks at him. Reverent. Contented.

“Remembering.” She takes his hand and kisses the weathered knuckles, the golden signet ring sitting heavy on his third finger. “Fixing this moment in my mind for the lonely nights between your letters.”

Claude grins. “Shall I have a portrait done?”

Lorenz arches an unimpressed brow at him; but then her eyes travel down, over chest and belly and cock and thighs, legs swaddled in the unkempt sheets, one arm tucked behind his head, and she smiles. “Perhaps you should. Such gifts are customary when courting royalty, are they not?”

“I’ll speak to my court artist as soon as I return.” Claude reaches out and tugs her down with a laugh, smothering kisses to her cheeks. “And I expect to receive a similar gift in exchange, yes?”

“I am not— _eep!_ —posing _nude_ for some _strange artist—Claude!_ ”

“Pose for Ignatz then, he’s not a stranger. Ow! Gods and angels, Lorenz, your nails are _sharp_.”

“Good! How else am I to teach you manners?” Still, she subsides in her poking and kisses him for apology, a difficult prospect with how hard he’s laughing. “Hush yourself. It’s nearly dawn.”

“We should sleep.” He flops back onto the pillows with a sigh. “Or else we’ll sleep the whole day away and waste our last few hours together.”

“Hmph. I suppose.”

“Don’t look so glum, my dearest.” He kisses the crown of her head. “We’ll meet again before you know it. And in the meantime I’ll write you so many letters you’ll grow sick of me.”

“I dare you to try.” Lorenz sighs and rolls away from him, hugging a pillow to her breast. “Draw the curtains, darling, the sun will be up soon.”

“Yes, dear,” Claude says, but the snark in his voice is hollow as a bird’s bones.

He blots a kiss to the top of her spine and gets out of bed. Outside it’s still dark, but the sky is lightening in the east. Already he knows the sun is a few fingers off the horizon back home, and the palace is beginning to stir with the first signs of life. There are a hundred questions yet to answer, but a part of him thrills to think that one day _she_ might be there at his side, waking up in his arms to a new and radiant dawn.

But for now the sky is grey, and the wind coming off the sea is cool with the first tinge of autumn, bringing a mist with it to blanket the cobbled streets and stave off the day. Claude breathes it in, the cool and damp and salt. Then he draws the curtains, tying them securely, and goes back to bed.


End file.
